You didn’t hear the rest. Your focus was tunneled on the bar.

He was leaning on the polished wood, one arm braced, his body angled toward the barmaid—a blonde with a bright smile and an apron tied a little too tight. She giggled, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear as she slid his refill closer. Her fingers brushed his forearm.

You raised your glass, the ice clinking, and took a long drink. The whiskey burned, but it didn’t drown out the tight, hot feeling in your chest. You’d apologized. You’d explained. And this was his answer.

That was it. The scrape of your chair against the linoleum was loud in your own ears. You were already at the door, pushing out into the cool night air, when you heard his voice behind you.